


Land of God

by orphan_account



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Drabble Collection, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, Multi, Sexual Content, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-19
Packaged: 2017-12-05 16:46:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/725562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athelstan learns to cope in an unholy land. A series of drabbles about the priest, his host, and the woman he cannot have.</p><p>ABANDONED</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They had laughed at him. Athelstan didn’t move after that; let the blood drip down his forehead, over the arch of his nose. The blood was warm, hot, burning, searing, he was sure that it would be the blood that would scar him, mar his face. He closed his eyes, imagining it, a permanent mark of his shame, his failure to protect his friends from the foe he knew was out there. 

He didn’t move for nearly an hour, the cold air hitting his face, his neck, turning his shift into nothing. The coarse muslin under his knees hurt, but he had hurt worse. His knees on the hard ground had gone numb, but he had kneeled for longer. That’s all he thought about, his body, how he had survived worse. Everything in parts, after all. He was part of the body of Christ, part of the soul of the Spirit, part of the heart of God. He was all and one, and each part of him had endured worse. 

Even the cut on his head had stopped throbbing. 

Where was the holy now?

That was how Ragnar found him; kneeling and shivering and bloody. Athelstan still had the knife in his hand, the coagulated blood flaking off the sharp edge as his hands shook. 

After the wind, the next thing Athelstand felt was Ragnar’s hand across his collar, the Viking’s arm over his chest. He shuddered, leaned forwards as Ragnar pulled him backwards.

“What have you done to yourself, priest?”

Ragnar’s voice was soft in his ear, and Athelstan didn’t fight anymore, let Ragnar pull him against himself. Squatting on the ground, Ragnar pulled Athelstan in between his spread legs, his hand on the Englishman’s shoulder tight and unyielding. 

“I was shaving.” Athelstan said quietly, his chill evident in his voice. Ragnar’s chuckle was low as he took the knife from the priest’s fingers, setting it in the bowl. Athelstan watched with bleary eyes as the Viking dipped his hand into the water, shivered against Ragnar’s back when the water dripped over his cut. 

“Shh,” 

Athelstan swallowed, closed his eyes, let Ragnar clean the cut slowly, his hands limp in his lap, his head lolling forwards onto his chest. He must have made a noise because Ragnar hushed him again, clenched his hand over his shoulder. 

Was this a second baptism? Athelstan heard the knife, his half-open eyes registering a slight change in the shadows around him. He shivered, swallowed, his fingers moving over invisible beads, his mouth moving.

“Hold still.”

He felt the knife on his head and he clenched his eyes shut tightly. 

“You’re fine, priest.”

Athelstan made another noise and Ragnar’s only response this time was to put his hand around the priest’s neck. The Viking’s elbow rested against Athelstan’s chest, incredibly light, for a man whose calloused hands were causing Athelstan to turn his head up, outwards, towards the fjord, west (he realized, west) towards God. 

As Ragnar continued to shave his crown, dipping the knife into the water, sliding the blade across the rim of the bowl with a grating sound, Athelstan turned, closed his eyes, pressed his cheek against the furs the other man was wearing. His mouth was parted and his breath moved the fibers as he breathed in and out. When Athelstan turned Ragnar’s hand relaxed on his neck, his palm moved over the priest’s mouth, the calloused fingers, the broken nails on his ear. 

Athelstan shuddered again. 

“Get changed. You’ll catch your death of cold.”

Ragnar smirked down at the man, who stared up at him with wide eyes and an open mouth. 

“Come on. Breakfast is already in need of a fire.” 

Swallowing, Athelstan watched him go, lying on the ground, his elbow in the dirt. He raised his other hand to his crown and felt the close shave, the perfect, unbroken circle. he swallowed again, his eyes darting around the hut, hands shaking as he reached for his habit and slid it on. His knees almost buckled as he stood and followed Ragnar into the main part of the hut, smelling the quail’s eggs, his mouth already watering.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athelstan attempts to sleep after the Vikings' invitation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic sexual content.

He didn’t even take the noose off as he slept. It was a leash, really, but if he called it ‘leash’ he felt even more like a slave. Noose was a sentence with an end in sight. He swallowed and blinked, trying to focus on the words on the page in front of him. The letters had been blurry for at least ten minutes.

Ten minutes, was that right?

Athelstan swallowed again and his Adam’s apple scraped against the noose. There were only smudges in front of his eyes, he couldn’t see at all, there was nothing there, there was only the dark ink.

The noises were haunting him again, soft grunts, gasps, Athelstan could hear those sounds, feel them like mouths under his muslin collar as the book slid from his fingers. He was hungry and cold, and he thought he could feel warm fingers on his legs, God, dear God, fingers on the inside of his thighs, tracing the lean muscles there.

He was getting hot now, his eyes still closed, the itchy rope unmoving against his neck, the good book forgotten by his hip. What book? He had left it behind, fallen forwards, remembering Ragnar’s fingers over his lips, parting them. His breath hitched in his throat and the tightness there had nothing to do with the noose. The air in the hut was stiff with heat, with smoke, pooling in the darker corners of the hut.

The habit had never felt so constricting. Athelstan lay on the hard floor, those moans like mouths on his neck and God, God, what was this temptation. He was Jesus in the desert, he was Pharaoh against he plagues, he was Job with a heavy tongue, he was Jonah about to curse the lord. He was standing on the edge of the boat, looking over, hands clasped in prayer.

He was so tired; it seemed so easy. There was music, soft sighs, the heavy fabric. He felt the fingers again, pushing his legs open, palms against his thighs, tough and worn. This time he didn’t resist, allowed the hands on the inside of his knees to creep slowly upwards. If he kept his eyes closed he wouldn’t see them, wouldn’t hear them, wouldn’t become that pillar of salt, watching the world burn.

Tilting his head back, his mouth opened, his feet braced on the ground as his hands loosened over his chest. The noose was lying on his throat, limp. He could feel her hands, he could feel them tracing up his legs, pushing his habit up so she could wrap her hand around him and his soft gasp blended with hers.

This was not how a monk acted, not how he should act, not how a man of God acted, but he couldn’t think straight, her hand smoothed over the creases of his habit and he – oh God – he could feel Ragnar’s hands too, on his knees, pushing his legs flat on the ground. Athelstan made a small noise as Lagertha began to move her hand over him, pulling on his shaft, rolling her thumb over the fabric where the head of his cock was.

Another moan, louder, his eyes shut tight as he imagined Ragnar urging his wife on, imagined him whispering into her ear, but looking at him, through him. The noose became a hand, Ragnar’s hand, holding him down as Lagertha continued to stroke his cock through the fabric of the habit. It was rough and smooth at the same time, and Athelstand felt like he couldn’t move, found he didn’t want to as he whimpered under Ragnar’s hand and Lagertha’s touch.

A sharp laugh cut through his thoughts and he sat up suddenly, eyes wide with shame and embarrassment. Looking up in the pale light he saw Ragnar whispering to Lagertha, lounging, both of them naked, against a doorway ten feet from him. Athelstan flushed a deep red and quickly pulled his knees up, hiding himself from the pair who were grinning at him.

“Looks like you were enjoying yourself.” Lagertha’s lilting voice teased him quietly.

“I was enjoying myself-” Ragnar’s hips moved against Lagertha’s ass and she laughed again as Athelstan ducked his head, putting his forehead against his knees, his hands clasped together.

“Ignosce mihi, pater, quia peccave, pater noster qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum.”

Ragnar laughed again and Athelstan could hear his feet on the ground. The Viking crouched down and put his hand on Athelstan’s cheek, pressing down, his mouth on the crest of his ear.

“You just have to ask for help, priest,” Ragnar’s voice slid over Athelstan and he shuddered. “When you come to bed my wife wants to settle a bet. Which one of us is bigger--”

“-sicut in caelo et in terra.” Praying, he hoped, would drive Ragnar’s voice away, drive away the gooseflesh that crawled down his back. Would forgive his sin, touching yourself was still lust, still punishable. His fingers clasped tigher as he spoke the Latin louder and Ragnar laughed again, stood and left Athelstan alone. He spent the night praying, listening to the sounds of the Vikings behind him, imagining where he would be if he were with them.


End file.
